SHE. Yes. My last cruelty. I had a special reason for being cruel to
you. Shan't I tell you?
HE. Just as you please.
SHE. My reason was this: I had learned what it is to love--and I knew
that I had never loved you--never. I wanted to hurt you so much that
you would leave me. I wanted to hurt you in such a way as to keep you
from ever coming near me again. I was afraid that if you did forgive me
and take me in your arms, you would feel me shudder, and see the
terror and loathing in my eyes. I wanted--for even then I cared for you
a little--to spare you that.
HE. (_speaking with difficulty_) Are you going?
SHE. (_lifting from the table a desk calendar, and tearing a leaf
from it, which she holds in front of him. Her voice is tender with an
inexplicable regret_.) Did you notice the date? It is the eighth of
June. Do you remember what day that is? We used to celebrate it once a
year. It is the day--(_the leaf flutters to the table in front of
him_)--the day of our first kiss. . . .
_He sits looking at her. For a moment it seems clear to him that they
still love each other, and that a single word from him, a mere gesture,
the holding out of his arms to her, will reunite them. And then he
doubts. . . . She is watching him; she turns at last toward the door,
hesitates, and then walks slowly out. When she has gone he takes up the
torn leaf from the calendar, and holds it in his hands, looking
at it with the air of a man confronted by an unsolvable enigma._